Wine, lip-gloss that stays on for seven days, shakes, stretch pants with quirky characters uniquely placed on women’s crotches all throughout the nation. Facial crème, candles, Norwegian cleaning supplies that take butter off the windows (cause we all have fucking butter on the windows). Exercise programs, cooking supplies, custom bags to put custom bags in bags that are customized-Make it stop!
Listen, I can hardly afford to pay attention, let alone spend 100 bucks on cat stretch pants for the Halloween Season that say “Boo” all over my ass. My ass is already a highway distraction. I don’t need characters and drawings all over my rear to add to my humiliation. No, thank you. Besides, I’m going to be in my sweatpants on Halloween night sipping vodka out of a cauldron. I understand it’s your passion. You found something that allows you to have freedom and live the life you’ve always imagined and build your dreams and spread your wings and liberate your soul. I’m just not your gal.
I don’t have time to put myself together, let alone put a party together where I’m gonna ask other girlfriends who don’t have time or money to spend time and money on things that take up time and money. I don’t want to spend money on chips, salsa, hummus, and low-cal dips to host a party on a Friday night after work. On Fridays, I rip my bra off and throw that thing down the hall as soon as I get home. I tear off my pants and wear a giant t-shirt while I eat leftovers out of my fridge and watch Lifetime television for vaginas. That’s how I roll; I’m not your gal.
I don’t want a $200 custom bag that has my kid’s name on it. I want a spa day to get rid of the bags under my eyes. I want a personal handler to tote my kids and their shit to all their shit. I actually hope they lose their bags so we can stop having to take part in whatever sport we’re taking part in. How about a FREE custom bag that’s big enough to ship me to Bermuda with fancy stitching that says’ “DO NOT RETURN”. I’m just NOT your gal.
Your shakes and before-and-after pictures are not enough to get me to stop guzzling red wine and scarfing carbs every night. If I’m spending $10 on a bottle of wine a night, the budget for your shakes or exercise program is blown and I’m too drunk to press play. Listen, I’m starving! I had a piece of old cheese left over from the noon meeting. I shoved a half a doughnut down my throat that I found in an abandoned cubicle, and when I get home I need to eat like a Viking man that just returned from a kill. I’m a wild, starving beastly cave woman- I AM NOT your gal.
I’m going gracefully into the good night; no face crème can save me. I need a complete overhaul. I need to be a contestant on that sad show “The Swan”. I need to start a Go Fund Me account to lob off my fat stomach, lift my tits, and blowtorch my sagging old face. Your crème doesn’t stand a chance against my problems. I’d probably be better off eating it to contract some sort of stomach sickness that gives me explosive diarrhea. Then at least I’d lose some weight. Are you seeing how I’m just not your gal?
The only one I’m down with is the wine thing. That is practical. All I ask is that it’s bring your own hummus and salsa. No bras or pants allowed- and a cauldron to drink out of.
That’s how my gals roll.
This author has chosen to publish anonymously.